Winter night
by Fadetonoir
Summary: She loved him. She also pretended that he loved her too. -DerekCasey-


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**From my point of view, I think this story is way too OOC. Also, there might be many ****_many _grammatical and spelling errors because I did not check it even once. It just came pouring out and my hands just went typing. I did not think, did not read and certainly did ****not check. This came out straight from the heart.**

**I might delete it after I get my senses back but till then, read it!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own LWD.**

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It was a winter night.

**Cold**, **dark** and **numb**; what **winter** stood for. He sat on his bed, leaning against the headboard. Headphones were jabbed deep into his ear, music screaming into his ear with furious volume.

His eyes were closed, a rare moment of peace on his face. It was a scene she drank in thirstily. Dark hair ruffled and crushed against his pillows, his mouth voicing out the words softly, his fingers tapping out the rhythm;she looked with a mixture of breathtaking awe and pain.

She hesitated before stepping in closer. His eyes snapped open. For a moment, his eyes were clear from his usual feelings kept for her; scorn and annoyance.

The dark eyes stayed unfocused for a second; confusion _clearing_ his eyes, leaving them crystal clear; void of any strong emotion. She imagined seeing his eyes filled with emotions he saved for Marti; love and feeling.

It was a second later when those eyes returned; those she had come to dread since the time she had started recognizing them. His face usually stayed passive; usually showing very simple emotions; like and dislike.

It was those eyes; however clichéd it sounded, it was those _eyes_ that really took her in into him; sucked her inside him.

Now, it was coloured with hatred. She didn't have to turn around to see whom it was aimed for.

It was time for Casey to go in and the dreaded stepsister to come out.

"I need a ride tomorrow." The stepsister said coldly. (It was winter for them _every time_.)

Casey looked out from inside, suddenly feeling ridiculous to be two people at the same _time_.

He slowly removed his headphones, mainly to irritate the stepsister. Casey, however, drank in the sight of his long lean hands.

"Sorry." He said before turning to the other side, intent on going back to listening to music.

"De-_rek_!" Her face flushed; the stepsister heaved with anger while Casey blushed at the sight of that gorgeous back.

He turned around again, a smirk on his face.

"Car's full." He replied.

"Oh yeah? With whom? Your inflated ego?" She snapped.

He looked at her coolly. "I really don't' like your tone, missy." He sneered.

"I can't go with Emily because her car's gone for repair. Come on, it's freezing! You can't expect me to walk!" She cried agitatedly.

"Do you have a sweater?" He asked thoughtfully after a moment of silence.

She nodded.

"Pair of boots?"

She nodded again.

"Jeans?"

She stared at him. "What are you getting at?" She barked.

"Well, congratulations! You are officially eligible to walk your way to school!" He said, snickering.

Casey stood aside, noticing how he seemed to grip his bed sheet tightly, as if it was almost killing him for some reason.

Her counterpart looked angrily at him. "That's not funny!"

He almost looked bored. (It was only Casey who noticed his grip got tighter.)

"Have you noticed your nose scrunches up when you get angry?" He observed dispassionately. "It's very unflattering."

This time it was both of them; Casey and the stepsister who lamented. "_**De-rek**_!"

"Well what? Even Sam noticed." He said, shrugging his shoulders impassively.

Unconsciously, her hands went to her nose, touching it gently.

"You're so immature!" she yelled furiously.

They were at it again, Casey realized miserably. The yells, the shouts, the insults, the retorts and if it went on for more than five minutes, she'd resort to slapping and somehow, he'd always see them coming, grabbing her hand before it made contact with his face. (They were weirdly, oddly, funnily in tune to each other. It was like they were on the same wave length, same tune, and same _fucking_ melody.)

For them, this was inevitable; like breathing. They went on fighting and fighting, venom practically dripping from each other's mouths.

And then it was only later at night, she'd sob her heart out, her pain pouring out of her with tears. It hurt her so much, this _twisted_, intoxicating relationship they shared.

And the fucking thing was that she _**needed**_ him, like she needed to breathe. She needed to see him, feel him, and _fight_ him because in the end, she was just sickeningly happy to pick up the broken pieces.

How did she even _get_ here? To be so wholly dependent on someone she hated and loved with equal fervor? How did it not strike her that it wasn't the shiver of _repugnance_ when she first felt his hands brush hers? That it was not hatred that gave her the impulse to fight him? That it was only, really, actually a primitive need inside her to fucking _protect_ herself?

She wondered bleakly if he ever realized that it wasn't just hatred that fueled their never-ending clashes. She pretended he did, not because it was likely but because it gave her enough hope and enough strength to _get _up and take a stand to fight him with fierceness much like a tigress, protecting herself, her _boundaries_.

So she pretended that it was angered _sexual_ frustration that made him grip his sheets. She glared at those hands, wishing it was her and not the sheets that were getting such a violent grip.

The room was silent now, high on electric tension – almost as if static was flying from both of them. Both were afraid to break the thickness present in the air; as if it would bring in a whole new meaning to unpleasantness.

"I just need…a ride." She said slowly. (And please, _you_.)

He sat up straight, and proceeded to stand up slowly before standing face to face with her. He had grown a few inches. Her eyes met his chin now and she slowly, hesitatingly looked up to meet his eyes. The silence from him was killing her now. Who were they kidding now? The question wasn't about a fucking ride anymore. No, it had finally come to an end. Their days and days of relentless frustration and compressed neurotic feelings were going to come out today, dammit. It was _time_.

She looked at him boldly, inwardly forcing him to speak, say something, anything to take her out of her own personal fixated hell.

What he said, threw her.

"Why are you in love with me, Casey?" He whispered, slowly putting his hands on her cheek, touching her with a questionable gentleness that left her weak and quivering. There was an untamed feeling wallowing them, almost suffocating them.

His hands trailed down to her chin, and then down her neck. She swallowed back a scream. It was torturing her, his slow leisure touch.

"I am…not." She tried pathetically, all force out of her.

"Liar." His hands went down…down…Tears clouded her eyes. A wicked mixture of pleasure and violation coursed through her veins. Her gaze grew hazy but funnily enough, she could still see those eyes. Clearly.

He bent and kissed her. He slowly coaxed her to open her mouth and she allowed him in instantly. Unlike their fights that were violent, fierce, tangible; the kiss was gentle, soft and subtle. There was nothing cold in it; it was so warm; liquid fire blew her senses away.

She almost cried out in protest when he withdrew. He looked at her and she looked at him and they both knew that _nothing_ had changed.

Nothing.

He was still Derek Venturi, her stepbrother, pain-in-the-ass stepbrother, still someone she hated. She was still Casey McDonald, his stepsister, his uncontrollable, perfectionist, annoying stepsister and she was still desperately, uncontrollably, and totally in love with him.

"Say goodnight and _go_." Derek forewarned her. She understood him. She had to leave before they got a chance to be sucked into a twisted, fucked up world of exploited, immoral, sex.

It broke her to leave but she did.

She almost didn't catch his last words but she did.

"We'll always have winters."

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**I don't even want to write anymore. I just read the first few sentences and it hit me: I'm _so_ awfully terrible at writing! Argh!! So its perfectly understandable if you dislike it. I do.**


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